The Long Winter
by YellowScout
Summary: What if the characters of TF2 were patients of a mental hospital-from Spy who has multiple personality disorder to the Schizophrenic Pyro? The newest resident, Scout, is the doctor's latest obsession. But what will it take to break through the young man's psyche, and what dark secrets of the asylum will be unveiled? Warning(s): Medic and Scout bonding. No pairings.


_The Long Winter_

By Yellowscout

Prologue:

St. Francis Hospital stood between two giant magnolias, their blossoms ripe as ever in the icy November winds. The building was almost inviting, its dozens of windows lit-a-blaze with a warm yellow glow, the hedges trimmed to perfection to form delicate shapes as the good doctor desired. But, even so, the large wrought iron gates that surrounded the place were enough to make any sane individual think twice about setting foot upon the property. A large concrete pathway lead to the finely crafted front steps which connected to the large porch whose floor lay draped in the sweet, waxy scented white flowers that had fallen from the trees above. Two twin doors provided entrance to the asylum, their heavy knockers resting quietly against the freshly polished oak, and a thin man waited impatiently before them. He rapped his fist against the wood, mumbling under his breath.

A velvety black suit clung to his frail bones, giving him the appearance of a flesh covered skeleton. His skin was chapped from the cold, dotted with liver spots and his hands sported several large veins that bulged at the surface. He was a most important man in his mind, and very irritable at best. He was raising his arm, preparing to knock again, when the door to his left was pulled backwards with a low creak.

"Yes?" The hospital clerk as well as main nurse, known as Miss Helen, poked her long face out, wrinkles pooling around the corners of her dark eyes. "Oh, it is just you, Mr. Roosevelt. Come to bring us another case, I see?" She scrunched her nose up at the yellow file in his hand, not bothering to hide her contempt. She began to shut the door. "I already told you we are full—"

"Wait!" He lunged forward, grabbing hold of the door frame with his thin fingers. "I think the good doctor would be quite interested!"

"Oh, do you?" She sneered, a strand of black hair falling across her forehead. "That's what you said about the _last_ patient you suggested to us, that loony…_Sniper_, as he insists on being called." She shuddered. "He keeps shooting at the other residents; he's become quite the nuisance."

"This one is different, I assure you," Roosevelt babbled, the fedora sliding down his head. He knew when he was losing an argument. "He makes for a very curious study! He…he sees _things_—"

"Ha, so does the Pyro," She shook her head, thin lips curled downward in a frown. "It's called Schizophrenia." As an afterthought, she added, "The freak."

"Yes, yes but this boy—he _believes_ these delusions, even when

medicated."

"And your point is…?" She snorted, "The runt has a twisted imagination, go figure!" She fumbled for a lighter in her coat pocket. "Now, if you'll kindly excuse me—"

"_My dear Helen_," He crooned, staring up at her pleadingly. He was at least two inches shorter than she. "I beg that you reconsider! Here, just read his records…that's all I ask."

She rolled her eyes, producing a cigarette from a shining silver compact. "You and I both know better than that."

"_Why won't you at least mull it over for a little while_?" He demanded briskly, feeling his temper rising. He did not like wasting his time. He hated losing even more.

She opened her mouth to speak, when suddenly they heard a loud yell from up above. They stumbled down the brick steps, tripping over each other's feet. An object abruptly whirled past them, landing just behind where they stood. It shattered against the concrete, the smell of piss filling their nostrils.

"Oi, ya bloody wankers!" Sniper shouted, waving his lanky arms around from the balcony. "Look at me, Oi'm king of the world!"

"_That_ is why," Miss Helen responded with a snarl. She marched back up the stairs, her gown flapping around her ankles. Without another word she slammed the doors shut, leaving Mr. Roosevelt standing alone in the Wilkes-Barre night air. He gave a long sigh, pinching his nose as another jar crashed along the walkway, followed by a victory cry. What in the Hell had he been thinking?

"Vas that Mr. Roosevelt?" Medic asked, descending the spiraling figure-eight staircase, adjusting his glasses. He had just finished sedating Sniper. "I thought ve had a clear understanding vhat ve are not capable of taking on more patients, ja?"

"We do," Miss Helen agreed, giving a curt nod of her head. "But you _know_ how stubborn that man is…"

"Indeed," He sat down on the leather couch, which was almost always occupied except during the evening hours when the patients were asleep…or at least_supposed_ to be. "Zhat Soldier keeps trying to steal zhe gardener's shovel. Perhaps ve should try somezhing?"

She frowned and took a seat upon one of the armrests. "It is the least of our problems, I should think, doctor."

"You are right, I suppose," He agreed. "Vell, did you take zhe file?"

"What? Oh—no, I didn't."

The Medic stood up, stretching his arms. He made his way to the doors, unchaining them and pushing them open. A draft blew in, the burgundy curtains dancing in the wind as he bent down to retrieve an item. Roosevelt had placed a rock upon folder to keep it from blowing away. He returned to the sofa, crossing his legs as he opened it. He began to thumb through the papers.

She groaned. "_But doctor_," She protested, crossing her arms. "You said so yourself—we can support no more patients!"

"Zhe government funds us for each resident," He reminded her, narrowing his eyes as he read the tiny print. "And my fazher provides money also. Zhis is not about finance."

"We do not have enough staff as it is! That seems obvious enough after tonight's little incident," She said, referring to the Sniper's little randevu. "What do you expect will happen if we take on this next one?"

He ignored her, and continued to study the information sheet. "Hmm, take a look at zhis, vhy don't you?"

Reluctantly she leaned forward, unhappy with the situation at hand. "What is so interesting about _that_?"

"His mind contorts reality into zhese violent scenarios," He explained. "He is also a compulsive liar."

"Don't forget that he is clinically depressed _and_ has ADHD, from the sound of it."

He gave her a dismissive wave. "It says nozhing here about him having such an illness."

"Well, either way he apparently likes to talk _constantly_…I don't want to have to listen to that all day."

"And you vill not have to," Responded Medic. "Hearing vhat he has to say is my job."

She glared at him with all the venom she could muster. "_Why_ are you so intrigued? And do you seriously _think_ he'll be honest with you for _one second_? It says right there in black and white… he does _not_ tell the truth."

Arching an eyebrow, he massaged his temple. "I zhink I can work on him."

"Yes, yes…but _what on earth_ can you _gain_ from all of this? I don't see how he can possibly pertain to your quest for knowledge."

"He can teach me vhat it takes to break into somevne's psyche."

"Or you could just give him a lobotomy."

"Nein—you know zhose have been banned."

"That never stopped you before."

"Bezides," There was a dark glint in his steely blue eyes. "I vant to practice my _skills_."

"Manipulate his emotions, you mean?"

"Not quite," He shut the file and stood up. "You know how I enjoy a good challenge."

"You mean like the rest of the "_challenges_" we have here," She snapped dryly. "I suggest you tell the rest of the staff before you make this decision."

"Nein, it is for me to decide," He responded, starting back up the stairs. "I have a call to make."

She exhaled, sliding down onto the couch. She lay there a few moments, tempted to quit her job. She was paid well…but was it really worth all this trouble? She could hear him turning the dial from the second floor, no doubt contacting Roosevelt. Her stomach churned.

A few moments later, after he hung up from his conversation, Medic returned to the living quarters. "One more zhing, Miss Helen," He told her.

"_What_?"

"Zhey call him Scout."

A/N: I hope this is an ok start. It's very late, and I ought to be in bed. Anyways, this idea has been running around my head for awhile now and I figured I'd go with it. If there's anything particular you want to see happen during this fic, let me know. Also, tell me: would you like to see Heavy as a patient in the story, or as one of the staff members? If you enjoyed the prologue, please drop a review and let me know. Thanks(:

Also, forgive...the document manger keeps messing up my files. It takes away the spaces I have put for some reason:/


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